


Sign of Four

by kimposibl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: AU-freeform, Attempt at Humor, BAMF John, Case Fic, First Time, Incomplete, M/M, Might involve Sherlock/Watson/Khan, Out of Character, Possessive Sherlock, Post Reichenbach, Semi-Crack, WIP, not sure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimposibl/pseuds/kimposibl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. The last of Moriarty's crime syndicate is coming after John Watson. Also Sherlock has a twin brother, Khan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sign of Four

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm obsessed with the way Benedict Cumberbatch portrayed Khan. And I'm obsessed with Johnlock. I might be interested in an actual plot. Un-beta'd

As soon as John hears gunfire, his body moves on autopilot. He drops the groceries, takes cover at the side of the building next to him, and tries to see where the shots are coming from. The crowd in the streets have begun to run about in a panic, and through their legs, he can see the movement of two men running with purpose. John wants to help, and once he sees that no one is hurt around him, he stands and barges his way through the crowd. He stops to look around when someone barrels into him, hard. He falls onto the pavement, thankful that his arms caught his fall, and prays that no one steps on him in their stampede to safety. He stands and tries to follow the one who bumped into him, a tall bloke with slicked back hair and long legs. John runs until his query slips into the alley, and John doesn't know enough of London to try and intercept him. He calls Lestrade.

"Gunshots a block from Baker street."

"Yeah, had a call in. On my way. And don't do anything." Lestrade says, but John's already ended the call.

The street has cleared up quite a bit, and no one's hurt. John tries to stay put and assess where the bullets might have gone, but his wrists are achy and his heart is pounding too much to think rationally. Who opens fire in a crowded street in broad daylight? He hears the distant sirens of the MET and waits until Lestrade's car pulls up in front of him.

"Alright, John?" he asks breathlessly. There's a spot of coffee on his shirt. John nods. 

"Yeah, the suspects went south, but I couldn't give chase. Sorry."

"No, no. We've got choppers looking for them now." Greg heaves a sigh. "Jesus. Gang rivalry, you think?" 

"I don't know."

"Well, glad you're not hurt mate. I'll have to stay here but you head on home."

John nods, wishing he could do more. He searches for his fallen Tesco bags and sees them by the building he was hiding by. As he gets closer, he sees a distinct hole in the brick just at eye level. He inserts his finger and feels the cool side of a bullet. He looks frantically around in case the suspect is still around, but the police are everywhere checking buildings and interrogating witnesses. What the hell is going on?

"Greg!" John calls, waving over the DI. Greg excuses himself from the Chief Inspector and jogs over, looking harried. John points to the hole in the wall. Greg gives him a meaningful look and calls his forensics team. 

"Go home, John. I'll come see you if we've found something. CCTV footage will help, too."

John nods and picks up his bags. He quickly walks the street over onto Baker Street, his home of a year despite lacking Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't bear to leave the place, not if it meant a lonely studio flat. It is torture for him to endure the memories of his best friend while being physically without him, but to have nothing of him is even worse. John has taken to picking up the Strad and playing a few measly notes learned from lessons on YouTube. His blog has been laid to rest, but he writes a personal diary to cope with his depression. He works at the surgery full time, and is still surprised when he stays for an entire shift without being called away by a pushy consulting detective. 

John enters his flat and immediately gets the feeling that something isn't right. He sets his groceries aside and quietly checks on Mrs. Hudson, who must still be out with Mrs. Turner. He looks at the stairs and wishes he still kept his Sig on hand. Trying to improvise, he grabs the broom from the cupboard under the stairs and quietly makes his way upstairs. He skips the squeaky fourth and sixth steps. As he moves up the second flight, he can hear rummaging in his flat, the sitting room door slightly ajar. Someone in the flat has closed the curtains and boarded the windows, but by the sounds the intruder is making, John can pinpoint the person's location. He takes a deep breath and barges through the door, broom swinging.

The broom connects with a broad back loomed over his desk. It snaps but the intruder doesn't crumple. Instead, the tall figure turns around and John is the one who's stumbling. In front of him is a face so familiar, with narrow, piercing eyes and sharp cheekbones. Even in the dim lighting, John can make out the intruder's soft jaw line, the tendons in his neck, and his slick-backed hair. John blinks rapidly, broken, makeshift weapon forgotten. This, whoever this is, looks exactly like Sherlock, but that's not possible. Unless Sherlock came back from the dead with 50 more pounds of muscle and got a new hair style.

"Sher...Sh...." John can't speak. His throat has closed up and he's having a difficult time convincing himself that he's still awake, that he didn't get shot and he's in some strange purgatory. 

"Where is your gun?" the man asks, his voice deep and rumbling. John shakes his head. He's going crazy. This man, so like his Sherlock yet not, is standing in front of him, demanding his gun, and John can barely breathe. "Where is it?" he repeats louder.

"What the hell is --" John is interrupted by the door bursting open and footsteps running up. The intruder quickly closes the sitting room door and bars it with the sofa. He flips over the coffee table and props it up like a shield as soon the bullets come firing. John ducks underneath the desk and tears out the panel inside one of the drawers. He quickly assembles his gun by muscle memory and loads it. He tosses it to Sherlock (Sherlock?), who catches it swiftly and begins firing back. Five shots, screams of agony, then two more, and silence. John slowly peers up as he hears Sherlock moving about, no doubt checking on the gunmen. 

There are three men in black wearing ski masks. Sherlock pulls off each mask and curses as if not finding what he wanted. He tosses the Sig back to John and starts collecting the fallen men's weapons.

"What is going on?" John asks, panting with adrenaline and fear. HIs hand is steady for the first time in months. "Are they after you or me?"

"Mycroft will be here soon. Let's go." Sherlock doesn't look at him and heads down stairs. John follows while dialing Mrs. Hudson's mobile. 

"Mrs. Hudson," he says when she answers. "Don't come back to Baker Street. Stay where you are until it’s safe again.... No I'm fine, but I'll call you. Stay with Mrs. Turner or at your sister’s." He hangs up and finds Sherlock in Mrs. Hudson's flat trying to leave through the back. The step out into the alley and see a black car waiting for them on the other street. Sherlock goes first, but John steps in front of him.

"I'll go first, you great ponce," John says angrily. Sherlock stares back at him in surprise. "Then you can explain what the hell is going on." John looks out on both ways of the alley before exiting the flat. He grabs Sherlock's thick, muscular wrist and tugs him along. When they're close to the car, the door swings open, and John pushes Sherlock to go in first while blocking the exposed side with his body. They get in and the car zooms away. John sits back but doesn't sigh in relief.

"Alright there, John?" Mycroft asks, his expression grave. John turns to him, his finger raised.

"No, I'm bloody well not alright! First, I get shot at, then I come home, find him -" he points at Sherlock, who is checking his guns - "looking alive and healthy and what, hitting the gym for 4 hours a day?" John can't keep the hysteria from entering his voice. The shock is finally sinking in. And now there's just anger. Rage, more like.

"John," Mycroft says calmly. "Let me explain. This isn't Sherlock." John opens his mouth to respond but Mycroft raises a patient hand. "This is his twin brother, Khan." John just gapes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Khan is," Mycroft takes a deep breath, "well, he's not mentioned, much, but he is a Holmes. Obviously."

John stares at Sherl – no, Khan – and rakes his eyes over him. Must be identical twins with how alike in looks they are. Practically mere duplicates if not for the aspect in which they are difference from each other. Khan is pale, deathly pale, but Sherlock can be, too. Curly hair and be flattened with enough water and gel, and muscle building is all a matter of regiment and diet. Somehow, a genetically modified clone of Sherlock makes more sense to John than a twin brother he never heard of.

"Twin," John says disbelievingly. "A fucking twin. Really, Mycroft?"

"He knew he wouldn't believe it," Khan says, finishing with the guns and hiding them on his person. Mycroft looks as if he's getting a migraine. John wants to hit something.

"'He'?" John repeats. "You mean, Sherlock?"

"Of course, Sherlock," Khan sneers. "Do not mistake that brat with myself. If I actually were him, wouldn't you say that this is a rather elaborate ruse?"

"Sherlock's alive?!" John has officially had enough. "Stop the car. I'm getting out."

"John, no," Mycroft says. "You are in danger."

"Sherlock is alive. And has a twin brother. I've offed myself and gone to my personal circle of hell. Good bye." John tries the door, and if he has to duck and roll, then so be it. He's had to jump out of moving vehicles before, sometimes at faster speeds. The latch doesn't unlock though, and John resorts to kicking at the windows.

"Are you mad?" Mycroft shouts. Khan just looks amused. "Dr. Watson, you will cease this at once!"

"No!" John says, in fact stopping and rounding on Mycroft. "You've known for how long that Sherlock is alive? Is that why people are trying to kill me? And who's this? Why is he here instead of Sherlock?" John's expression falls. "Did something happen to him?"

"Calm down. Sherlock is fine." John gives an audible sigh of relief. "He's still in Hong Kong. Khan was closer to you. Not to mention, his objectives are in line with Sherlock's." Mycroft frowns.

"And what do you, exactly?" John asks Khan, who is searching on his phone. When Khan doesn't look up or reply, John says, "Let me guess, MI6, criminal mastermind, a minor official in the British government?"

"How did Sherlock acquire this man again, Mycroft?" Khan asks. John bristles.

"Flatmate," Mycroft replies with a small smile. The corner of Khan's lips quirk up in a way reminiscent of Sherlock, and John really just wants to leave the car, and London, and the UK. 

"When will Sherlock be back?" John asks.

"He will return in a few days. Until then, we will keep you in a safe house while we gather more information on the men trying to kill you."

"Moriarty?"

"What is left of his syndicate, yes. The man who inherited the empire is very upset with my two brothers, and since one is without any obvious weaknesses, he decided to exploit the only other."

John feels his face flush, though in embarrassment or affection, he doesn't know, and it pisses him off. John knows exactly what Mycroft is saying, and to be considered as someone who Sherlock cares about is extremely flattering, but Sherlock said so himself that he's a sociopath. Then again, if John ever knew Sherlock, he would know how much he means to the other man. 

"So I'm involved now, am I?"

"Don't worry," Mycroft says with a smirk, which both terrifies and excites John, "you'll do fine."

\--

John is debriefed on the situation. Mycroft insisted that he know as little as possible, but John refused to be kept in the dark about the last year of Sherlock's life. And while there are boxes of files on Sherlock's activities, none of them mention Khan despite obvious discrepancies in the reports. If there's any real mystery, it’s not Sherlock's false suicide, but Khan's existence and part in this whole fiasco. Khan is involved at a different angle, but that just begs the question of who enlisted the help of whom. John knows close to nothing about Khan; he was never mentioned by either Sherlock or Mycroft. Are they ashamed of him? Was he disowned? Maybe they have a begrudging, working relationship – seems like the trend with the Holmes boys. John sometimes thinks he never would have heard of Mycroft if Mycroft hadn't abducted John that first day or physically insert himself into his and Sherlock’s shared life in 221B.

"So who's older?" John asks, putting down a file a picking up another. Khan, staring out the window of Mycroft's office, doesn't look at him.

"I am, of course." John looks up and studies Khan's profile. His fitted black long sleeved shirt seems to accentuate rather than hide his musculature. John used to look like that about 15 years ago. It really isn't fair. Not only do Sherlock and his twin look like models and have brilliant minds, they can also build the physique of a Greek god. What is John's life?

"Right, so you don't act like a posh, childish git?" 

Khan turns to him, amusement softening his features. "Is that how you would describe him?"

"Mildly, yeah." 

"No, I do not. But what does that make you, John?"

"An overindulgent idiot, obviously. Spare me the introspection of my part; I've known what I am for quite a while."

"You are an army doctor who flatshared with my brother and went with him on cases. I believe you are underestimating your part."

John huffs a laugh. "Oh, you can do that deduction thing, too? Or did Sherlock tell you about me?"

Khan glances back out the window. "My work does not require as much social interaction, be it with living persons or corpses, but you are easy to read; it should be embarrassing for you." He looks at John again. "Sherlock only told me the necessary details. He is very possessive."

John frowns, literally up to his eyes with all of Sherlock's shit. "I'm not his goddamn toy."

"No, you are not. Otherwise, we would not be here, having this conversation." He pushes himself from the windowsill and walks around Mycroft's office. "Mycroft will do anything for Queen and country. I only have loyalties to my family. Sherlock is more self-serving."

"In what way?" John asks.

"He only cares about the people he loves."

\--

John thought he would be excited and happy to see Sherlock. But when the door to the safe house opens and Sherlock is standing on the threshold with wild, curly hair, deep circles under his eyes and a stone less in weight, John runs up to him and punches him in the nose. Sherlock stumbles back against the door, but before his legs can give away, John is pulling him into a tight hug. His arms wrap fully around his friend, even with Sherlock’s heavy coat between them, and he instantly feels guilty. Sherlock smells like smog and other unfamiliar, unwelcome scents like blood but if John burrows his nose deeper into the collar of Sherlock's neck, he can smell the detective's subtle musk, a scent that hasn't fully left the downstairs bedroom in 221B.

"John," Sherlock says in a tight, raspy drawl, and John pulls him closer. "John," his voice is more stuffy, "my nose is bleeding."

"You deserve it."

"I deserve much worse." 

John pulls away but drags Sherlock by the sleeve to follow him into the loo. They pass by Khan at the laptop, who stares at them with unmasked curiosity. John makes Sherlock remove his coat and sit on the toilet lid. Sherlock obeys, his head tilting up while John gets the first aid kit.

"It's not broken," John says, running the faucet warm. He takes a flannel and sticks it under. He carefully places it under Sherlock's nose and uses the edges to wipe off any blood stains on the rest of his face. He's read medical reports on Sherlock's injuries, and they were summaries at best. John wants to do a full check up, preferably at a hospital with proper equipment, but Sherlock wouldn't agree to it.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says. John looks up and sees Sherlock's eyes fixed on him, and he forgot what it felt like to be under such sharp scrutiny. Against his better judgment, he would say he missed it.

"Let me check and I'll let you know if you are or aren't." They get into a glaring contest for several seconds. 

"Fine," Sherlock says, glancing away. John smirks to himself.

"Good."


End file.
